When the Metrograph theater opened on New York’s Lower East Side in spring of 2016, it wasn’t just a cinema; it was an experience, offering up two screens of new independent films, archival screenings and special events, as well as an on-site bar, restaurant and bookshop. In the years that followed, Metrograph’s reach continued to grow, as did the opportunities for film lovers to patronize the theater beyond its walls, thanks to the establishment of Metrograph Pictures (a distribution company restoring and championing archival releases) and the Metrograph Journal (featuring thoughtful film writing from a variety of contributors).
But like so many other theaters, particularly independent ones, Metrograph faced a crisis in the spring of 2020, as Covid forced the doors to close at 7 Ludlow St. But that July, the company launched what was initially known as Metrograph Digital, with an ambitious calendar of live screening events developed and curated by the theater’s programming team, featuring new releases and reperatory titles supplemented by guest introductions and Q & As. Those events were initially limited to Metrograph members, but that October, the program expanded to include screenings that were available to nonmembers à la carte.
In the years that followed, the service — rechristened Metrograph at Home — expanded from the theater’s website into the streaming platform space, transforming a pandemic stopgap into a specialty streamer spotlighting foreign, art house, independent, classic and documentary selections and monthly verticals. Like similar services we’ve spotlighted here, the library may not be gigantic (it currently boasts 158 feature films, 10 short films, and 55 original videos), but the curation is excellent, the interface is easy to use and the audio and video quality are top-notch. Best of all, it’s affordable; access is bundled with a Metrograph Membership, which is only $5 per month or $50 annually (and which also includes discounted tickets, special events and other perks for in-person members).
Here are a few recommendations from their current library:
‘The French’: One of Metrograph Pictures’s proudest discoveries is this 1982 documentary from the expatriate American photographer and filmmaker William Klein, who was the first director ever granted permission to shoot at the French Open. He captures the 1981 tournament, in which Bjorn Borg defeated Ivan Lendl, in cinéma vérité style; we see plenty of action on the courts, including Borg’s dramatic victory, but Klein seems less interested in the spotlight than the margins, and the most fascinating footage finds sports gods hanging out and talking shop in the locker room, or trading strategy and gossip in the stands. (There are also plenty of opportunities to observe John McEnroe being a brat.) It’s a panoramic view, keenly observed, and serves as a valuable time capsule of the sport in an earthier and less corporatized era.
‘Possession’: When Andrzej Zulawski’s psychological horror drama was first released in the United States in 1981, it was in a badly butchered cut, excising much of the film’s weightier material to appeal to a straightforward horror audience that dismissed it. It was all but impossible to see in its original form for years, but Metrograph Pictures oversaw a new 4K restoration, which was the first film screened at the theater when it reopened in the fall of 2021. It’s a deeply unsettling picture, which begins with the marriage of its focal couple (played to the hilt by Isabelle Adjani and Sam Neill) in total disrepair, and things go steeply downhill from there; suffice it to say that Adjani’s subway miscarriage is one of the most stunning pieces of acting ever committed to film, a scene that remains indescribable in spite of its notoriety and meme-ability.
‘Goodbye to Language’: Unfortunately, the limitations of streaming video do not allow us to view this, one of the final films by the great Jean-Luc Godard, in its original 3-D form, which found the formally playful filmmaker occasionally layering text and images, one atop of another, adding both visual depth and a sly wink to the frame. But this provocative essay film is still well worth a look, even in only two dimensions; it remains one of his most experimental works, gleefully embracing amateur aesthetics (much of it was shot on consumer digital video) with casual moments of everyday beauty. There’s little plot to speak of, and the characters are primarily vehicles for Godard’s meandering musings on love, trust, sex, death, God and dogs.
‘Lady Vengeance’ / ‘Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance’: Park Chan-wook’s “Oldboy” (2003) has become one of the most revered and influential action films of its time, but even its American partisans may not be aware of the films he made before and after it, creating what critics call his “Vengeance trilogy.” Though not directly linked by shared characters or scenarios, there are plentiful thematic connections, as well as similar stylistic flourishes — particularly his signature violent set pieces — resulting in a sometimes stomach-churning, sometimes unnerving, yet often poignant triptych.
‘The Connection’ / ‘Portrait of Jason’ / ‘Ornette: Made in America’: The platform’s “Three by Shirley Clarke” program highlights the work of this groundbreaking maverick filmmaker, a true independent in a period when such directors (male or female) were few and far between. Her 1961 proto-found-footage drama “The Connection,” based on a stage play, is a harrowing, claustrophobic story of a documentarian whose attempt to shoot a fly-on-the-wall portrait of heroin addicts is sidetracked by his own hubris. “Portrait of Jason,” released seven years later, is a riveting snapshot of a gay, Black hustler whose wry observations and recollections of New York’s seedy underbelly (culled from an extended interview over one long night at the Chelsea Hotel) gradually reveal his own fears and shortcomings. And her 1985 “Ornette” is a musical bio-doc unlike any other, in which Clarke uses the jazz saxophonist Ornette Coleman’s triumphant 1983 return to his hometown Fort Worth to build out a tapestry of memories, dramatizations, archival footage and performances. Clarke takes genuine risks in style and form, adopting the freewheeling rhythms of Coleman’s free jazz performances to create an appropriately inventive and rule-bending tribute.
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